


Burning Pile

by BillyTheLord



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Internal Monologue, Introspection, No Dialogue, Prison Arc, inner thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29058465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BillyTheLord/pseuds/BillyTheLord
Summary: Dreams inner thoughts with his journals in prison
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Burning Pile

It was a smothering heat inside the tiny obsidian cell, the blocks underneath Dreams soles always had a faint thrum to them as it blocked out the lava completely surrounding his prison. It was impossible to escape the heat, sweat was a constant on his brow and created dark patches of sweat on his prison garb. Dream idly thought, hysterically, of how they thought they could sweat out the evil in him, sweat out who Dream was. Maybe being in the cell this long with only the occasional visit from Tommy was making him more paranoid and crazy then before. Obviously whatever his is, can not be sweat out, yet he still wonders.

Dream runs his fingers down the spine of one of his journals, feeling along the rough ridges of it before opening the book to the page he had marked where he last stopped. He hummed and quickly scanned over his last written paragraph, it was in the middle of a short story about a time before the disc war, before L’manberg and everything along with it. Back when he still got to see Callahan and Alyssa, before Alyssa disappeared without a trace and Callahan didn't keep such a long distance with him. When George went fishing with him and Snapnap helped build the ugliest house, the Community House, and they all had to fix it up so it wasn't such a eyesore. 

Those memories were dangerous for him, made long repressed feelings tug at a long dead heart. Dream felt no need to reopen those wounds, but this pressing heat in the insanity of such a small cell of isolation, he felt them fester open. The need to scratch at them like they were old scars across his skin drove him to write down these stories. Ones he needed to get out of his brain and place aside so he didn't need to carry that emotional toll. The guilt tore out of him with each word he would write and he couldn't tell if this was healing or more damaging, or if he cared at all if it was either.

Dream tugs at his shirt collar, grimacing as another bead of sweat rolls down his neck, he licks his lips and eyes the water bucket across the tiny cell from him. It doesn't matter how much he drinks he can't get the dry taste out of his mouth, can't even remember what it was like to be cold, to be hydrated and not strumming with uneasy energy at being held in such claustrophobic quarters. The heat couldn't be forgotten, it weaved into his thoughts, made him bleary and it was hard for him to focus. Dream was half sure his journals were gibberish, a mesh of his inner thoughts, with the story he was trying to tell spliced in.

Writing had been a forgotten comfort of his, one he did regularly with his friends in the earlier days, would write whole tales of adventure and mirth to entertain everyone. He preened with joy when he could get Snapnap hooked on a passage, or George gasping at a twist he didn't see coming. It would be long nights at a fire, bouncing ideas off of each other and laughing till their sides hurt that would spur him on to create more. He loved to entertain his friends, practically lived off of it those days. Things changed obviously, and he traded his tall tales for actual perils and adventures. Adventures that left him scarred, that made his closest friends turn their back with disgust on him.

So he did what he did best, and cut off attachment, left behind his passions and instead chased complete power. If he had everything to offer, to anyone, he could create the most amazing stories, get them to play it out with his real life characters. Dream created each pawn meticulously, crafted their stories with care, and fueled them with despair and destruction. He pushed the limits and watched these people crack, watch Tubbo turn on his best friend because of Dream's influence. In these moments he felt as though he was God and that the world was his to write. Destroying his attachments tore himself in two but it was necessary, he couldn't hold this power if he could be controlled. So along with his emotions, he threw his old journals into a burning pile and watched it all go up into ashes, all of his origins gone and like that he was utterly free.

He guesses he was icarus huh? He flew too close to the sun, pushed Tommy too far, and burned so many people that it was only time he had his downfall. His own web tangled up in his hands and he fumbled. He suffered the same fate his old journals did, a fitting circle for him, he assumes.

A prison meant for his plaything became his home and now he spends endless hours staring into the black stone and battling the thick smoldering air that clouds him. He supposes it's ironic, that after all that, after destroying everything he once was, that the journals would come back and be his only solace. 

He figures he'd truly lose his last shred of actual sanity if he didn't have these to write in. It's a little pathetic honestly, he thinks, to be reduced to this mess. He can't write as well anymore and it makes his hands shake in a way they never did. The words no longer flow with ease and the stories feel stunted and lacking in his usual preposterous attitude. He wishes he still had those skills, yet he assumes it was foolish of him to assume he could just get back what he so carelessly cast aside. 

Though there are moments where the sizzling pops of lava that blast heat into his rattling skull that he almost forgets who he was. The echoing walls of obsidian only add to his occasional delirium. He can almost imagine the heat is from a campfire and he is back with his friends, telling stories and being carefree. That is when he can feel the words fly out of him, creating compelling stories that give him choking nostalgia that makes tears threaten to spill from his too dry eyes. He feels like an old version of himself, and it's so intense that he half expects to make eye contact with George, sitting across the fire on the logs they pushed up to the pit, but when he looks up he isn't greeted with his friend's soft smile. Suddenly he isn't Clay anymore, but Dream, a locked away God. 

So maybe it's true, the heat is making him sweat out Dream, makes his skin reject the mask and he feels the edges of Clay around his mind. He doesn't know who he wants to be anymore, or who he might be now. 

It's hard to think of anything besides the pen between his fingers and the words he tries to spit out on the page. The clock continues to tick and he keeps at it, brows furrowed in concentration as he resumes the page. He allows himself to get lost in the words and to lava and pours out what he abandoned into creased pages.

**Author's Note:**

> ive never written fanfic before and i barely remember the start of the dream SMP bc it was like last year so rip


End file.
